the language of women

the language of women
in solitude
drifts on lighted wings
and rolls in clouds--
 
softly,
she tends her innerness--
in idiom her own--
transports the dreams
that find this earth too heavy,
more luscious than a lilac day,
 
dreams that float on yearnings
unpronounced,
what beneath the warmth of
cocoa on a winter day
she tends eternal
 
with cherished reminiscences
barefoot strides at play
in azure, salted tides
that come, go, come
 
patient, ever prayerful,
her hopes transform,
she reaches high
and formulates her promise:
 
resolved, she escorts the brilliant rays of sun
and paints the rising dawn her way.